The scent of burnt coffee clung to her sweater like regret.

Elishia Melaina leaned against the café counter, stifling a yawn as the clock above the register blinked 8:56 PM. Four minutes to closing. She could already feel the blisters forming on the backs of her heels, her worn-out shoes offering no mercy. The café was nearly empty, save for a quiet couple in the corner whispering over two cups of half-drunk lattes.

Four more minutes, she thought, watching the second hand crawl around the clock face. Then home, then three hours of cramming for tomorrow’s quiz, then maybe—if I’m lucky—four hours of sleep.

“Hey, El,” came a voice from behind.

Her coworker, Jennie, peeked out of the kitchen, balancing a tray of leftover pastries. “You want any of these before I toss them?”

Elishia perked up, her stomach choosing that moment to growl audibly. “You serious?”

Jennie grinned, her ponytail bouncing as she nodded. “No one’s gonna buy a blueberry scone tomorrow that looks like it got sat on. Besides, you look like you haven’t eaten since breakfast.”

Try yesterday’s breakfast, Elishia thought, but she just smiled gratefully. “You’re a lifesaver.”

She grabbed one and took a big bite, still warm enough to be comforting. The burst of blueberry sweetness made her eyes flutter closed for a moment—a tiny luxury in her otherwise relentless schedule.

Jennie leaned on the counter, studying her with concerned brown eyes. “What time are your classes tomorrow?”

“Eight AM,” Elishia said with a sigh, swallowing the pastry. “Economics and Financial Reporting back-to-back. Professor Hendricks doesn’t believe in mercy, and Professor Yang thinks sleep is a social construct.”

“Don’t you, like, sleep at all?” Jennie’s voice carried the kind of worry that came from genuine friendship. “You’ve got bags under your bags, girl.”

“I sleep in micro-naps,” Elishia said, managing a tired laugh. “Three minutes on the train, five while waiting for the professor to set up his ancient projector, seven on the bus if I’m lucky enough to get a seat…”

“You’re insane.”

“I’m in college.” The words came out more bitter than she intended. “Same thing, really.”

Jennie laughed, but her eyes softened with understanding. She’d been in Elishia’s position once—scraping by, surviving on fumes and determination. “You ever think of, I dunno, dropping a class or something? Lighten the load?”

The question hit like a punch to the gut. If only it were that simple. Elishia shook her head firmly. “Can’t afford to. If I delay my degree, I lose my scholarship. If I lose that, I lose everything.”

She didn’t say it out loud, but they both knew what she meant. No family to fall back on. No trust fund. No wealthy parents to bail her out when things got tough. Just tuition bills, rent payments, and the constant, exhausting game of survival that came with being completely, utterly alone in the world.

Some people get safety nets, she thought, watching the couple in the corner laugh at some private joke. I get tightropes.

Jennie’s expression grew troubled. “El, you know if you ever need—”

“I’m fine,” Elishia cut her off gently but firmly. She’d learned early that accepting help always came with strings attached, and she couldn’t afford to owe anyone anything. “Really. I’ve got this.”

Do I though? The treacherous thought slipped through her mental defenses. How long can I keep this up before something breaks?

By 9:15, the café was closed, lights dimmed, and the door locked behind them. Elishia waved goodbye to Jennie, shouldering her canvas bag—patched in three places and held together by stubbornness—and stepping out into the night.

“Get home safe!” Jennie called after her. “Text me when you get in!”

“Will do!” Elishia called back, though they both knew she’d probably forget. Her phone was perpetually dying, and her mind was usually too fried by the end of the day to remember social niceties.

The streets were quiet, the kind of quiet that made you feel like the city was holding its breath. She pulled her hoodie up against the October chill, earbuds in, playlist on shuffle. Twenty-minute walk back to her place—the same route every night. Down Ashford Street, past Martinez’s corner store with its flickering neon sign that spelled “Op n 24 Hour ” in electric blue, then a shortcut through the alley behind Murphy’s Laundromat.

Twenty minutes, she thought, her feet already aching. Then microwave ramen, then Econ chapter twelve, then Financial Reporting homework, then maybe I can close my eyes for a few hours before doing it all over again.

Her phone buzzed with a text from her study group: “Study session tomorrow at 6 AM in the library?”

She typed back: “Can’t. Working.” Always working. The story of her life.

Her apartment was tiny. Cramped. One room that served as bedroom, living room, and office all at once. One bed with a mattress that had seen better decades. One microwave that only worked when you kicked it twice and whispered sweet nothings to its control panel. But it was hers. That thought kept her going through the worst days.

Almost home, she murmured to herself, a nightly ritual that made the last stretch feel manageable. Almost there, El. You can do this.

Halfway through the alley, her music cut out. She tapped her phone screen. Dead battery.

“Perfect,” she sighed, pulling out her earbuds. Of course. Because why would anything go right today?

The silence felt different now—heavier, more oppressive. Her footsteps echoed off the brick walls, and she found herself walking faster, eager to get out of the narrow space between buildings.

Stop being paranoid, she told herself. You walk this way every night. Nothing’s different.

But something felt wrong. A prickle at the back of her neck, like invisible eyes watching her from the shadows.

Just as she turned the corner toward the street—

Someone grabbed her from behind.

A hand clamped over her mouth, rough and reeking of cigarettes. Another arm wrapped around her waist, and she felt something sharp prick her side through her jacket. The world spun violently, her vision blurring at the edges.

No, no, no— Her mind screamed even as her body began to go limp. She tried to fight, tried to scream, but whatever they’d injected her with was fast and efficient. Her limbs felt like they were made of lead.

This isn’t happening. This can’t be happening. Not to me. Not now.

Panic surged through her bloodstream, fighting against the drug, but it was a losing battle. She could hear footsteps on pavement, voices speaking in low, urgent tones. The sound of a van door sliding open with a metallic screech.

“Don’t fight it,” a man’s voice said, almost gently. “It’ll be over soon.”

Over? What’s going to be over? The questions formed sluggishly in her fading consciousness. Who are you? What do you want?

Her vision blurred. Her knees buckled. The last thing she registered was the smell of rubber and cleaning chemicals as they loaded her into the vehicle.

Then, nothing.

Darkness.

Wet fabric against her face. The stench of mold and something worse—fear, desperation, human misery. And… movement.

Elishia blinked, but saw nothing. A thick, rough sack covered her head, scratchy against her cheek and reeking of salt water and neglect.

Her body jerked slightly with a rhythm—side to side, up and down. A groan slipped from her throat before she could stop it, muffled by the coarse material.

Where am I? The thought formed slowly, like swimming up through thick mud. What happened?

Her hands were bound tightly behind her back with what felt like zip ties, cutting into her wrists. Ankles too. Every muscle in her body ached like she’d been thrown down a flight of stairs.

The alley. Someone grabbed me. Drugged me. The memories came back in fragments, each one worse than the last. Oh God. Oh God, this is real.

She heard voices then—faint, muffled through layers of wood and steel. Her ears strained to catch the words while her mind raced to understand her situation.

Her cheek was pressed against something cold and rusted—metal flooring that vibrated with a low, constant thrum. The movement, the engine noise, the way everything swayed…

A boat. The realization hit her like ice water. No—a ship. We’re out at sea.

How long was I unconscious? How far from shore are we? The questions multiplied faster than she could process them. Why a ship? Where are they taking me?

She didn’t move. Not fully. Something—maybe a crate or supply box—was pressed awkwardly against her side, creating a small barrier between her and the voices. It was pure luck, but she’d take any advantage she could get.

They don’t know I’m awake, she realized. Don’t move. Don’t make a sound. Listen first.

Elishia forced herself to breathe shallow and slow, fighting every instinct that screamed at her to panic, to struggle, to scream until her throat was raw. But panic would only get her killed faster.

Think like this is a problem to solve, she told herself, falling back on the analytical skills that had gotten her through economics courses and financial planning assignments. Gather information. Assess the situation. Find leverage.

The voices were clearer now, and what she heard made her blood turn to ice.

“—fetch more if she’s clean. Check her paperwork.”

Paperwork? What paperwork?

“College student. Local. No family connections on record.”

They researched me. This wasn’t random. The thought was somehow more terrifying than if it had been a crime of opportunity.

“Better keep her in the low-tier lot then. No fancy lineage. Probably a house girl or backup breeding stock.”

The words hit her like physical blows. House girl. Breeding stock. Terms she’d only heard in news reports about trafficking rings, in documentaries she’d watched for sociology class, in statistics that seemed impossibly distant from her own life.

This isn’t happening to me. This happens to other people. People who aren’t careful, people who don’t pay attention, people who—

But even as the denial formed, she knew it was useless. This was happening. She was here, bound and hooded on what was apparently a trafficking ship, being discussed like livestock.

Something shifted across from her, and she froze. Another form. Slumped. Small. Breathing, but unconscious. Sack over the head, just like her. Ropes around the wrists.

She counted carefully—two, three, four others that she could sense in the immediate area. All girls, from what she could tell. All around her age or younger.

Some were still completely unconscious. One was muttering in her sleep, moaning weakly, her body twitching like she was having nightmares. Another was so still that Elishia had to strain to see the slight rise and fall of her chest.

How many of us are there in total? How long have they been doing this? How many girls have already—

She cut off that line of thinking before it could paralyze her.

This isn’t a robbery, she forced herself to acknowledge what she’d been trying to deny. This isn’t ransom. This is trafficking. Human trafficking.

A strangled sound threatened to escape her throat, but she bit down hard on her tongue, tasting blood. Her body wanted to panic, to scream, to fight against the restraints until her wrists bled. But her mind—the same mind that had gotten her through twenty years of survival—kicked into overdrive.

Observe first. Then act.

It was something Professor Hendricks had drilled into them in Economics: You can’t solve a problem until you understand all the variables. A stupid comparison maybe, but it was what she had.

So she focused on gathering information instead of drowning in terror.

They hadn’t stripped her, which was… something. Her clothes were still on—hoodie, jeans, even her beat-up sneakers. Her bag was gone, obviously, along with her phone and wallet. The zip ties around her wrists had already rubbed her skin raw.

She angled her head slightly, trying to map her surroundings through sound and touch.

Above her—grated metal. Maybe a ventilation shaft or drainage system. No natural light filtering through anywhere she could detect. The air was thick with the smell of salt water, motor oil, and something worse—urine, vomit, and the sharp stench of human fear.

Below deck, she realized. We’re in some kind of cargo hold.

How long have I been unconscious? Where are we going? Do they have a buyer lined up already?

The questions came faster than answers, but each piece of information was something to work with.

Suddenly, footsteps approached, heavy boots on metal stairs. She went completely still, not even daring to breathe deeply.

“Fuck,” a male voice cursed, closer now. “Someone pissed themselves again.”

Another voice laughed, cruel and casual. “Always happens with the new ones. Let ’em stew in it. Not our problem until delivery.”

Delivery. The word made her stomach clench.

“Boss wants us to check vitals in an hour,” the first voice said. “Make sure we don’t lose any more product before we dock.”

Product. Not people. Not girls with names and families and dreams. Product.

The footsteps retreated, but she could still hear them moving around above, discussing logistics like they were shipping furniture instead of human beings.

Elishia exhaled slowly and silently, her mind racing.

I’m trapped. But I’m awake. I’m aware. And I’m not broken yet.

She thought about Jennie, probably wondering why she hadn’t gotten that safety text. About her professors, who would mark her absent tomorrow. About her scholarship coordinator, who would want to know why she’d missed her check-in appointment next week.

Someone will notice I’m gone, she told herself. Eventually.

But even as she thought it, she knew the truth. She was alone in the world by design—no family to worry, no close friends beyond work acquaintances, no boyfriend to call when she didn’t come home. She’d built her life to be self-sufficient, and now that independence had made her the perfect victim.

No one’s coming to save you, she acknowledged, the thought hitting her like a physical blow. If you’re getting out of this, you’ll have to save yourself.

The girl next to her whimpered in her sleep, and Elishia felt a fierce protectiveness surge through her. Maybe no one would come for her, but there were other girls here who might have people looking for them. Who might have a chance if she could find a way to help them.

Think. Watch. Wait. Survive.

That was all she had for now. But it would have to be enough.